Stain’d sparrows
glean the gritty grain,
where margins
bleed a cross of pang.
In Diablo’s womb,
the crucibles glow,
and crows of malice
sleep below,
framed in shadow,
depth of resent,
wherein the pit
he lays his pith,
as a fillet spent.
His death-sled
fed the triangular stone,
the blackened steed
roams in his soul
Where strychnine waits,
a bitter throne.
For hubris
stripped his aegis bare,
and clout ~ vapored
as scarred air.
He serenades Charon,
coins in hand—
two pence silver
for the shadowed land.
The bird nods quick,
draining his breast,
sutured clutches
putting his breath to rest,
Locked in, as stillborn~
stygian sighs,
beneath the weight
of a smoke-choked sky.
A shepherd he,
of righteousness born,
with hands that wove
the night from morn.
Grounded as creed,
his feet of soot,
and eyes that breathed—
alive, absolute to kaput.
She is the prison,
the hemlock song,
the womb of smoke
where shackles belong.
Chiseled free,
he made the bed,
and let her strike
until he bled.
All spilled for one small,
crinkling spark—
A morsel of ardor
in the hunger of dark.
(C)2026 Nomadic bard. All Rights Reserved.